


Emergence

by orciny



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mild D/S dynamic, Oral Sex, PWP, Porn with Feelings, consensual use of a mobile camera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:39:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orciny/pseuds/orciny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, it's all a bit uncertain.  Nothing's any easier than it was before they kissed, but now they have some new tools for working it out.  John, for example, is partial to the mobile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emergence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meredydd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/gifts).



> Originally written for Holmestice December 2012. I've fiddled with it a bit since then. Special thanks to april-likes-things for being a lovely beta and pretty rad besides.

_Come before rain;_  
 _rise like a dark blue whale_  
 _in the pale blue taffeta sea;_  
 _lie like a bar in the eyes where the sky should be.  
_ _Come before rain._

_\- Emergence, by P.K. Page_

 

 

In the first few weeks after their first few kisses, everything was a bit uncertain. Things were good between them, of course - ecstatic, heady, sweetly obscene - but uncertain. Neither yet knew quite how they would be, once it all settled. This was after the first marathon days when the need for touch finally broke its dam and spilled over everything. This was before the love between them smoothed and leveled and became the sturdy tabletop on which they did their work.

Most things remained the same. They still bickered and joked and passed hours in companionable silence. The refrigerator turf war between food and body parts continued unabated. Sherlock's things continued their steady march into all of John's space, and John continued to respond by dumping them in piles at the door of Sherlock's bedroom. The difference was, at the end of the day they both stepped over them on the way to bed. The difference was a new world of pleasure being mapped each night in the bedroom, and in cautious gestures of affection in the kitchen, the living room, the stair: a new terrain of closeness. The sex came quickly but the rest came carefully, carefully.

Here is one important thing about Sherlock: he is not great with uncertainty.

 

***

 

One day, early on, Sherlock breaks a kiss to check his mobile when it beeps. John makes a small noise of protest, but stays hovered over him on the bed. He rolls his hips from side to side against Sherlock's. It's not an attempt at distraction; he always knew the period when Sherlock ignored his phone for snogging couldn't last. Sherlock snakes one hand out for his phone, but puts the other appreciatively over John's hip, long fingers splayed against his arse. He can do both at once.

Sherlock bares his throat as he turns his head to read the text. John tucks into it.

"Lestrade. Two bodies. Hammersmith."

Sherlock's brain is already whirring up out of the calm that had settled between them, but when John kisses him he closes his eyes. He is in two places.

"Alright, detective, get in the shower."

 

***

 

An hour later, across town, Sherlock materializes out of an elevator on the fourth floor of a low-rise building. The miscellany of officers lingering in the hall are well accustomed to the sooty storm cloud that pushes past them into the flat. John follows, meeting their eyes with half an apology.

Lestrade is in the living room. The flat is so small that the victims' feet are barely an arm's length apart, but their heads are slumped messily against opposite walls. He and Donovan barely fit, and Sherlock's entry turns it a touch claustrophobic. Sherlock, of course, takes up no less space than he ever does. John settles beside Lestrade while Sherlock orbits everything in turn.

"Cameron Bailey, 38, and Marcel Pirout, age 42. It's Pirout's flat. They've not been moved since we got here. The guns they're each holding appear to be the weapon used to shoot the other, though we're waiting on final reports from forensics. Obviously based on the blood splatter patterns and the position of the bodies, it looks a hell of a lot like they stood here and shot each other in the head. No idea why - if it was a suicide pact, there's no note. All the trace evidence we've found so far is the two of them. Doesn't seem like there was anybody else here. Simple enough, except -"

"Except," Sherlock interrupted. "Bailey died several hours before Pirout. And, of course, all of the other details you've got wrong."

Lestrade sighs. "Alright, give it to me."

Sherlock's eyes flicker to John, who nods. A few of the other officers have drifted into the doorway, watching. He loves an audience; he knows he's at his best like this, raining facts and reason and condescension down on all takers, making everyone see. He draws in a thick breath and all the eyes in the room snap to his face. His mind is pulling the facts together, alchemizing story. His eyes are on John.

"Well, for a start, congratulations on noticing that the blood splatters weren't coterminous," he addresses the tiny crowd. "Of course a child could spot the difference in texture but that's pretty good for you lot. Unfortunately you've completely misinterpreted everything else. A suicide agreement, really? What, a lover's pact? Maybe then you'd like to explain all the signs of struggle."

A ripple of confusion flows through the room.

"Oh, missed those, did you?" he leans down and shifts Bailey's tidy suit jacket above his waist. “Torn belt loop. On a man this smartly dressed? Never. You could also have noticed the blood on the cuffs of his pants. Couldn't have got there from the shots like they're laid out here, doesn't match the angle of spray. Tell me, do you actually look at the bodies before you call me? An old trouble too, look: the last two fingers have recently been broken and healed."

“That could be from anything,” Donovan interjects. “Throwing a bad punch after the pub, industrial accident...”

“The last fingers? And on both hands? Please, you know what this is. He owed money or favours to somebody.”

She scowls.

He steps across the bodies, coming to rest between John and Lestrade. John leans out of his way. Sherlock's arm still brushes his and John steps sideways to evade the contact. Sherlock continues but he is suddenly aware of his body and unsure exactly where to put it.

"You could also have noted the desk in the hall, which has clearly been pried open and then straightened up. Or Bailey's mobile, which is lying under one of the cupboards in the kitchen. Your choice."

 _Why did John shift away? Were they meant to keep their distance here?_ He doesn't recall John shying away from accidental contact before. Or does he? _Is this new, or old?_

"Bailey didn't come here voluntarily. You're going to find that these two didn't even know each other, at least not until very recently."

_And why? No stickler for professionalism, John._

Sherlock shifts his weight away from John, pausing in his rant just slightly. The room is watching him.

"The pile of shoes at the front door. Pirout is in his socks, and the whole flat is meticulously swept. No shoes allowed inside. And yet," he gestures at Bailey's filthy loafers. "Not staying, then, and not welcome."

Lestrade quirks an eyebrow, impressed as always. A certain tilt of the head amongst the other officers suggests grudging admiration. He meets all their eyes in turn, a quick preen. John is humming with suppressed pride, and the tension has gone out of his posture. Sherlock quirks a tiny flicker of a smile at him. Everyone notices, and for once Sherlock is oblivious. He is watching John try not to be pleased.

_Conflicting data. We can flirt directly but can't touch accidentally? Improbable, irrational._

He continues his conclusions about the crime scene, taking the officers through the angle of the bullet and the clothing irregularities and all of the other details they have missed. He sways a little while he talks, and John's body mirrors the movement subconsciously. He continues his conclusions, of course he does, but he also considers whether to place a hand on John's shoulder on the way out. He considers whether he might touch John's elbow as he gives him instructions. He imagines John, so solid and so good, not flinching away from his hands. He imagines John staring them all down, daring comment. None of their business, obviously. John, for once in their eyes not a lion-tamer but a partner. None of their business. But still.

As he nears the end, ramping up towards his final conclusions (well, alright, his final insults), his eyes slide downwards over the whole of John. His square stance, still postured after all these months out of the military, keeps his back strong and his shoulders spread. Under his bulky jacket he is dense and compact. His arms are never quite loose outside the comfort of 221B, and even now they are flexing and unflexing, coiled like snakes. His damnable trousers show nothing, but Sherlock pictures the rounded muscle of John's thighs, so perfect between his teeth. Two small marks there today, up towards the hip under a faint dusting of sandy hair, from Sherlock's incisors, all covered up by a maddening grey twill. Oh, those steady hips, so immoveable when upright. But only then.

"So if you want to find who did this, find out who Bailey was supposed to be meeting this morning," he finishes. The room is silent.

It's only then that he notices that John's face, fixed firmly in the distance, has gone red. Lestrade's gaze darts between them. Half of the officers are gaping at Sherlock, and half (including Donovan) have followed his own eyes to John's chest, his hips, his thighs.

Lestrade coughs. "Alright, you heard the man."

The officers reluctantly scatter. John turns and walks stiffly out of the flat.

 

***

  
In the taxi on the way home, Sherlock is unusually talkative, but only because John is unusually reticent. He fills the air in the cab with deductions about the officers, residual questions about the bodies, and guesses as to what Lestrade will find in Bailey's home office. John keeps himself very still.

They are stopped at a light when Sherlock finally comes to it. When he does, it sounds like an accusation.

"What's the matter with you? Everything all right?"

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yes, fine."

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, then closes it wordlessly. He barely ever deduces significant things about John anymore; between them, the whole process is a relic from their first weeks as flatmates, before familiarity and the total lack of privacy in 221B made it unnecessary. These days, when they are stepping around each other so carefully, John has been uncharacteristically indirect and Sherlock has fallen back on old habits. He hates - _hates_ \- not knowing their rules of engagement. His gaze sweeps John's profile, the hunch of his shoulders, his anxious wrists, his stiff knees. His deductions are clouded by attraction and he is doing them badly. John flushes, for the second time that day, under the touch of Sherlock's appraisal.

On the corner, a young woman is waiting with a handful of others to cross the street at the light. She is slim, light-haired, out of uni but not by much. She wears a tasteful charcoal suit, trying unsuccessfully to look older than she is. Her long hair flows down around her shoulders and gives her away. It has started to rain and she is staring longingly at their taxi. She and John lock eyes.

"When we get home, I need you to sort through the victims’ medical records, to see if..."

"When we get home," John breathes deeply. "I am getting some air."

***

John is a half hour out from Baker Street when he begins to sense that something isn't right.

When he walks to clear his head, he heads straight to the busiest streets nearby. For his money, there's no peace like a bustling pavement: urban solitude at its very finest. Today, even as dusk falls and the rush hour crowd thins, he doesn't feel alone at all.

He's not quite sure why, but his senses are pricked. Never one to ignore a bad feeling, he drifts left along the sidewalk, ducking closer to the building fronts and putting more pedestrian traffic between himself and the street. He keeps his pace steady. Could be nothing. Not ready to turn back yet. Continue, but watch.

He weaves expertly between slower walkers and oncoming traffic, stray shoppers and lovers walking hand in hand. Life-long city dwellers, him and Sherlock both. The fluidity of the crowd pleases and soothes him, even as he keeps one eye on guard.

Up a little ways, across the street, a fight is breaking out. Two well-dressed young men push at each other and yell obscenities. A small crowd is forming along the perimeter. Cars slow down to rubberneck and the people around John point and titter. The two men circle each other, oblivious to the onlookers.

"Oy!" John is shocked out of his own stare as he realizes he's almost stepped on a man sitting on the pavement. He stumbles out of the way, muttering his apologies. The homeless man grumbles and shakes his head, staring him down. The man swears under his breath.

John turns to resume his walk, and knows immediately what's happening. At the corner ahead of him, a small group of homeless teens, lingering on the steps of a small church, have all jerked their heads away from him in unison. They were watching him, not the fight. All of them. John doesn't need to ask why; he has seen homeless network surveillance in action before, just not as the target. He approaches them at a brisk, military pace. He has no desire for a confrontation - no reason to blame them, after all - but they need to know he doesn't appreciate spying. Also, he supposes, they should know that they've been caught. Sherlock's enemies tend to be clever enough to notice that kind of thing. He is annoyed to find himself looking out for Sherlock's interests even now. The kids sneak glances at his approach and whisper to each other. When he gets close, they disappear around the corner.

He jogs after them a few steps, but they are gone. Well done in that respect, at least. If they can’t spy subtly, they had better be able to run.

On his way home, he can't help expecting the security cameras he passes to swivel towards him on their mounts. Bloody nosy Holmeses.

A few do, but he doesn’t see them.

 

***

 

Here is another important thing about Sherlock: if you're going to come at him in a strop, you should be ready to strop hard. All-out fights with Sherlock require commitment, a singular objective, and (when possible) advance preparation, without which it's all just broken test tubes and wasted time. On his way up the stairs to 221B, John realizes he has the first and last but no idea what exactly his objective is. There is too much in the air, too much precedent waiting to be set. This is not a night for warfare.

It is, however, a night for progress.

He braces himself and pushes open the door with more force than is strictly necessary. It bangs against the wall and he shuts it hard behind him. As he is hanging up his coat, Sherlock emerges from his bedroom. He is in his pyjamas. It is dark outside and dark in the flat. John was gone longer than he meant to be.

Sherlock looks disheveled and sleepy, but it is too practiced. He has been waiting.

"The homeless network, Sherlock?"

"Hrm?"

"They're for spying on me, now?"

Sherlock sighs, as if John is being terribly unreasonable. Condescension is his default mode when he can't tell who's wrong. John is encouraged.

"Oh, please. I'm not my brother. I don't engage in petty surveillance."

John laughs darkly and Sherlock frowns. Of course, he had set John as a minor object of homeless network surveillance months ago.

"Alright, it's purely a safety precaution. A _reasonable_ safety precaution, as you know perfectly well. I set it up ages ago. They note the time and your location, nothing more. They don't even report it to me unless I ask specifically. I honestly don't see what you're so worked up about. They do the same for Lestrade, for God's sake, and you don't see him washing up here at all hours, banging our doors around."

John looks skeptical.

"It's a precaution," he repeats.

"A precaution."

"Yes! Do you need it a third time?"

"Fifth."

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"That's not the end of it, though, is it?" John pushes forward. "They may have been watching me for ages but I only noticed it today. And why is that?"

"Because you're an idiot?" Sherlock asks, saccharine-sweetly.

"Yeah, that's good. You know what I think? I think it's because today you asked them to report."

Sherlock straightens his back, drops his chin, and looks across the room: a portrait of guilt.

"So what was the safety concern today, then? Hrm?"

Silence.

"You can't do this. You can't _monitor_ me all the time. You can't send people to spy on me and you can't study me like a bloody test subject in front of Lestrade and you can't - "

"You were embarrassed earlier. With the Yarders. Why?"

It's been weeks since so blunt a question was asked, and John's answer comes slowly.

"You're not subtle, Sherlock. I don't know if you think you're being subtle, but you're not. You might as well have stripped me today, in front of everybody we work with."

"We don't really work with most of them," he responds, but a significant piece of his attention has gone back to that tiny flat full of death and idiots, and he is imagining pushing John's jacket off his shoulders, backing him up against the wall, and hearing the shocked gasps from the Yarders when John opens his mouth to him and...

"With, around, not really the point."

Sherlock pictures Sally Donovan re-evaluating, and suddenly he feels indignant about the whole thing.

"Fine. You want me to keep my distance when we're in public together. That’s fine."

"What? No. Well, yes. A bit."

Sherlock snorts derisively. "Perhaps you could be a bit more vague? I do love to guess. It's always such a joy to overstep my bounds and then watch you distance yourself from me for the benefit of the Yard."

"When have I ever done that?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"You mean today?" 

Sherlock holds his stare.

"No, no. Sherlock, no," he softens. "That's not... oh, bollocks." He starts over. "I'm not embarrassed by you. You can't possibly think that I am..."

"You weren't _before_ , certainly."

John is quiet.

"I'm still not. And I'm not embarrassed by this... whatever this thing is that's happening between us. Just, no displays of...," he waves his hands in a vaguely hugging motion. "Whatever, in public. It's courtesy, not shame. They don't need to see that. And please, no...," he almost can't bring himself to say it. "No staring holes through my pants when everyone's watching."

"You could have just said."

"You could have just asked instead of spying on me! You're as capable as I am of starting that conversation."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not," Sherlock huffs, exasperated. "I tried, in the taxi."

John thinks back.

"What, 'All right'? That's not trying, Sherlock. That's not even beginning to try."

"Well, it's more than you did."

"You're not supposed to keep score."

"And you're not meant to ignore my efforts."

John proceeds slowly, sitting tight on a new surge of anger. "If you're seriously suggesting that I don't accommodate you - that I don’t cater to your every _whim_ , you lunatic - you should think very carefully..."

"I'd be satisfied if you just stopped expecting me to read your mind," Sherlock’s voice is steadily rising in pitch, volume, and speed. "I don't know why you've started. You've not been like this since you first moved in - dodging questions, always making me guess what you're on about. Unfortunately, John, if you expect me to guess, then I need to see. I _have_ to watch you and draw my conclusions, however bad they will be. You've given me nothing else! And if you storm off, I can't bloody well see you, so I can't _know_."

They both look away. Sherlock focuses over John's shoulder and out at the peachy street lights of Baker Street. He regrets not turning on the lights in the flat. His eyes have adjusted and he can see John's face, but barely. He sways backwards, taking a small step to put more space between them.

John watches Sherlock's hips. He always sways from the hips, a quirk of balance. Sherlock looks adrift in the evening sea of indigo and pink, overwhelmed and a bit defeated. In his mind, John is chasing the threads of this conversation everywhere, to no end. The thick wool of fault and fear that hangs over both of them is unravelling, slowly, and someday it will come apart at last. But not tonight. John doesn't know what to say, but he knows he can do better than this. 

When John can't tell who's right, his default mode is physical.

"Hey," he wraps his hand lightly around Sherlock's arm, then slides it down and clasps him by the outside of the hand. A tiny squeeze, a tiny smile. He closes the space between them as Sherlock looks down at their hands, together.

John nudges Sherlock's face up with the bridge of his nose, pulling back just for a moment to look him in the eyes. Sherlock shifts his weight minutely from foot to foot. John smiles his way into a gentle kiss. Sherlock leans into the pressure, then pushes his empty hand up around the back of John's skull. He tilts their heads in sync as he parts his lips in invitation, and John fills the space with warmth and movement.

They may be a mess, but _this_ , oh, this.

Their pace is slow, the push and pull of lips moving like seaweed in a tidal pool. John weaves an arm around Sherlock's lower back and pulls their bodies together. The contact is grounding, and they both breathe a puff of tension out their noses. Each feels it on the cheek, feels it slide away. John lets his teeth run gently down Sherlock's upper lip, more texture than pain, and the tone changes. Sherlock is pulling now, tasting colour in John's mouth - _oh ochre, oh pewter, oh celadon_ \- and fisting his hand in the back of John's shirt.

Sherlock breaks the kiss, but only by an inch. "You're still angry."

John sighs against his mouth.

"I'm angry at both of us."

Sherlock thinks. "Me too."

And then he kisses John deeply; no slow introduction, no pause at the border, no cautious courtesies. John steps forward, right through Sherlock's space, rocking him hard with his hips and pushing them flat against the wall, their shoulders crashing after. On impact, a strangled sound rolls out of Sherlock’s throat, into John's mouth, and straight down to the base of his spine.

John bends his knees, drops both his hands under the curve of Sherlock's arse, and pulls up towards him. Sherlock's long legs stagger forwards, his hips rolling forward off the wall and into John's, his upper body still pinned in place. He is off-balance over his arched back, but John's hands and mouth are firm and they are rooted together.

Wrestling for control, he bites down hard on John's lower lip. John digs his fingers into the round muscle of his arse in retaliation, kneading and pulling. Sherlock tears his mouth away and holds his breath to smother a moan.

"Why so quiet?" John teases, sliding their burgeoning erections together. In the inky dark of the flat, Sherlock's skin is luminescent and John's mind floods with moronic praise. Sherlock looks like a black and white film star, lit from within. He looks like a moon, he looks like a statue in Italian marble, he looks like bone. John hasn't nearly had all the longing fucked out of him yet. Not even close. He smears his open mouth across the alabaster skin at the base of Sherlock's throat and then tucks his teeth around his collarbone, over his t-shirt. Sherlock makes another stifled noise.

"You don't like being heard like this, do you?" John settles his thumbs along the inside of Sherlock's hipbones. His fingertips are still embedded in flesh - hard enough to bruise, John thinks, and regrets that no one will see it but the two of them. He settles for tucking into Sherlock's neck, sucking hard over his racing pulse. If Sherlock wants the Yarders to see what they've been up to, then...

John stops short when his thumb hits something hard in Sherlock's pocket. Hard, smooth, rectangular - his mobile. _Oh_. Mobile, _mobile_. An idea rings through him like a bell, sending peals of want into his mouth, his groin, the pads of his fingers. Oh God yes.

He steps backwards and Sherlock pulls up off the wall after him, chasing his mouth. John resists.

"Bedroom. Now."

They stagger together through the door and into the dark room, locked mouth to mouth. Sherlock is pulling at John's clothes and John is swatting his hands away. John breaks them apart to flip on the bedside light. They both flinch at the flood of amber, but after a moment they see each other properly for the first time.

Sherlock drinks it in. In this light, John is spun from gold and water. Sherlock's face twists with a desire so strong it looks and feels like pain. John crosses to him and kisses it clear. Now.

"You know, there are lots of times I want to see you when I can't."

"Hrm?"

John slides his hand into Sherlock's pocket and retrieves the phone. He puts it on the bedside table.

"Kiss me," Sherlock purrs, leaning in.

John evades, pushing them both onto the bed. He drops his head and rocks back on his knees, nosing at the strip of skin at Sherlock's waist where his shirt and pyjamas have parted. From here, he can see the miles of lean muscle in Sherlock's torso moving under his skin. Sherlock runs a hand through John's hair, feeding the texture through his fingers, watching. A quiet moment of mutual worship. They will find the words for this eventually, but not tonight.

John still has his idea.

"There are lots of times I want to see you when I can't."

Sherlock is silent, but his eyes are locked on John, who is running one hand up the inside of his thigh, over his hip, and finally up over the long curve of his cock. He palms it firmly through the layers of silk and flannel. He smiles as he watches himself work Sherlock over his pyjamas, planting wet, sporadic kisses over his stomach, tasting glorious salt. Sherlock curls his hands into the shoulders of John's shirt, overwhelmed by the leisureliness of this intimacy. Under his hands, he can feel John's movements changing, gaining in urgency. His cock is hungry under John's hand and his hips begin moving of their own accord. He wants skin, he wants heat, he wants.

John pulls off and runs both hands up under the front of Sherlock's t-shirt, over the top of his chest. The cotton stretches as John kisses his way up to the skin below Sherlock's collar and then pulls it off, followed by his own. Sherlock yanks him back down and they both breathe deeply as they meet skin to skin at last. They kiss furiously, a wet, lascivious slide of tongues and teeth. Sherlock's hands are everywhere, groping artlessly. John's belt buckle is scratching at his waist, so Sherlock undoes it with one hand (John will never figure out how) and rolls him onto his back to yank his trousers down his legs and clear. Hateful things.

He reaches for John's pants, but is caught by surprise when John deftly rolls them both back into their original position, and Sherlock is pressed against the mattress underneath him. Sherlock reaches again for the waistband of John's pants and is stopped by a hard bite to the collarbone, this time on bare skin. Sherlock yelps and cannot help but rebel. John's wrists are straining on either side of Sherlock's shoulders, supporting his weight. Sherlock grabs them tightly and pushes himself down the bed between John's chest and the sheets. He wriggles down between John’s legs, keeping him still, until he can take the waistband in his teeth. John is frozen on his hands and knees, his stomach flexing against the brush of Sherlock's curls and his cock now nudging the bottom of Sherlock’s chin. John curses under his breath as Sherlock drags the fabric down and releases it gently over his balls. On the way up, Sherlock pulls the flat of his tongue slowly up the length of John’s shaft, flicking boldly at the head before raking his hands down John's chest and taking him deep into his mouth.

"Oh fuck," John's hips buck involuntarily and his knees move themselves a little further apart, lowering him into the wet heat below. For many minutes, he is lost to the drag of strong lips and the swirl of a quick tongue. But for all Sherlock's eagerness, John is more experienced, and he recovers himself before he is too far gone.

"Actually, that's just what I wanted to talk to you about."

Sherlock freezes, then slides off his cock with an obscene pop. "Go on."

John pulls one leg across Sherlock to kneel astride him. He grips Sherlock's wrists and yanks him up the bed so his head lands on the cluster of pillows. It bumps a bit against the headboard, too, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice. For all of his size, John can still move him like a rag doll when he wants to.

"Well, you're not the only one who sometimes just wants to _observe_."

John leans down and nudges his nose against the inside of Sherlock's hip. He dips one finger under the waistband of his pyjamas and pants together, and it's enough space for him to slide his tongue, that ever-present pink siren, down and around the head of Sherlock's cock. He gasps at the sensation, his hands immediately pushing against John's shoulders in encouragement.

"You've no idea what I would give to be able to see your face properly when I do this," he slurs, breathing heavily down Sherlock's pants and eliciting a pleasing shiver.

Sherlock swallows and says, tentatively, "You could look..."

"No, Sherlock: properly."

With that, John takes Sherlock into his mouth, down to the hilt, and then immediately pulls off to crawl up his body and look him in the eyes. Sherlock hears himself moan, but has no idea what his face must be doing. He closes his eyes and tries not to imagine.

"Hrm, no, that's not fast enough. Missed the best bits. Luckily, we have a solution."

He feels John reach for something beside them, and then there is a strange shift of weight. When Sherlock opens his eyes, John is standing over him on the bed - fully standing, with his feet on either side of Sherlock's ribs. His cock juts out gloriously before him, a thick line of lust obscuring the sight lines between their faces. John is playing with something in his hands.

"Here," he says finally, and in his extended hand is Sherlock's phone. Sherlock hesitates, then reaches for it. John doesn't release it into his hand, but moves it directly over Sherlock's head and positions it flat. Sherlock can only see its back, but John is looking at the screen. "Here, hold it there. Both hands, come on."

Sherlock obliges, a bit warily. After a minute of fiddling, John says, "Perfect," taps a button, and flips the phone around in Sherlock's hands. On the screen, he is faced with a real-time image of himself. John has turned on the front-facing camera. "Stay just like that. Arms straight." Sherlock does.

John lays down on the bed beside him and the side of his head edges into the frame. "Here's what's going to happen," he begins as he snakes a hand under Sherlock's shorts and begins stroking him. Sherlock is watching John’s hand move, watching John's controlled breathing beside him, watching everything. "You are going to hold that camera above you, just like that. You're going to hold it very, very still. You're going to look straight into that lens - I know you know where it is. Show me."

Sherlock's eyes flick to the lens and then back to John's hands under his pants. On the way, he sees John on the screen, watching his face.

"Good, that's good," his wrist gives an appreciative twist. "But I need you to keep your eyes there. Otherwise..."

Sherlock is too slow to respond, and John pulls his hand away. Sherlock's gaze lands on the screen just in time to see himself react to the withdrawal. It's a vision of himself he has never seen before; bereft, desperate, depraved. His mouth is spread wide and red, his hair is smeared across his forehead, and a splotchy pink flush has crept into the bottom of his cheeks.

"That's better. Now you are not going to take your eyes off that phone until I say so. Not for one second. And believe me, I will be watching. Just this one time, you're going to help me spy on you back."

Sherlock swallows audibly, and his cock twitches. John reaches up and taps the 'Record' button on the screen. The red icon in the bottom corner of the screen indicates video.

In his peripheral vision, he sees John turn his face towards the pillows. On the screen, he sees John's lips at his ear. His two Johns speak to him quietly.

"All right?"

John tucks a chaste kiss against his jaw. For a moment, his eyes meet Sherlock's on the screen.

Sherlock nods with certainty. John quirks a smile and plants a long, tender kiss on his shoulder. It ends with a bite, and John disappears down Sherlock's body. He can feel John moving on the mattress, pulling his own pants all the way off and then pulling Sherlock's remaining clothes off after them. On the screen, Sherlock sees his own eyes flutter closed when he first feels himself bared. As John tosses their clothes off the bed, he wraps one hand around the outside of Sherlock's foot and holds it firmly, moving his thumb across the top of his arch and his fingers just slightly across the bottom. The touch is strangely reassuring, and Sherlock feels held. It's a new feeling, this being cared for. He is used to being desired - enough men and women mentally undress him on any given day to fill 221B - but this is something different. And here he looks into his own eyes and sees the truth.

John has crawled up his legs and dropped his body between them. He rubs a slow hand up and down Sherlock's shaft, then nudges his thighs with his shoulders and gives a low chuckle when Sherlock obligingly spreads them further apart. On screen, the flush continues up his cheeks, embarrassment mixing with pleasure as John kisses and nips his way up the inside of his thigh. John's free arm snakes under his raised thigh and splays across the base of his stomach, pinning him in place. The pressure on his penis increases in John's grip as he feels the flat drag of John's tongue up along the underside of his testicles. It feels like velvet rubbed the wrong way. On screen, his eyes blow wide for an instant while he tries to catch his breath. John is making a happy humming noise below him, pulling rhythmically at his cock.

Sherlock's eyes slide shut against his will. They aren't closed for more than a few seconds when John lifts off him, both hand and mouth, and clears his throat conspicuously. Sherlock rushes to find the screen again. John makes an approving sound and redescends. Sherlock prepares for the sensation to resume, but then arches his back in surprise when he feels John's fingers press against his perineum and his cock sucked into the heat of John's mouth. His head jerks backwards into the pillows, and he looses an obscene moan. He dutifully adjusts the angle of the camera to keep himself in frame. His arms are beginning to tire from holding the phone above him, but he sets his shoulders back and balances them upright. He watches himself gape and mouth for air. Below him now are wet sounds, mixing with John's involuntary vocalizations as he breathes around a full mouth. Sherlock's mouth is moving faintly, grasping at words.

"John."

When he says it, he sees on the screen how his jaw braces against the consonant and then drops, his lips round and edge apart, and all contract back together in the finish. Such a perfect word.

At the sound of his name, John wraps his other hand around the base of Sherlock's cock and begins to pull and suck in sync. On screen, Sherlock's throat fills and his eyes have gone pleading. He is a model of debauchery, of need. He says that word again, "John."

John pops off him, slowing his hands to bring Sherlock back from the edge. Sherlock gasps and catches his breath, squirming against the sheets. John slides sideways off the bed and comes to stand near the head. He grumbles to himself, and Sherlock wants to look but doesn't dare. He watches with his peripheral vision, and watches himself doing so. It had never occurred to him that such a thing would be visible, but it is. He makes a note of it.

John lifts the small bedside table and moves it a few paces out of the way. The light wobbles and casts strange shadows over them both. "It's okay," John reassures him, and steadies the lamp. Sherlock wasn't worried.

John comes to stand beside the pillows at the head of the bed.

"Slide over here," he commands. Sherlock hesitates, then inches himself over to the edge of the bed, taking care to keep the camera in place as he does so. John's erection is only slightly out of frame.

"You are doing a fantastic job with that," John says. He leans in to kiss Sherlock, then at the last minute, corrects his course to come in from the side rather than above. He doesn't want to block the view. Sherlock takes the hint and turns his head into the kiss, still keeping his eyes above him.

What he sees stops his breath: John has his eyes closed, his forehead compressed in concentration, and his top hand buried in the thick black curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. Their mouths move together seamlessly in a rhythm already familiar. But he has never seen this before; he has never seen how John savours him. John's skin has flushed to a rich honey and Sherlock himself looks ashen beside him, like a black and white photograph in a colour film. The tickle of pink in his face all but disappears beside the ruddy joy that John is radiating, and when he opens his eyes to look at Sherlock - at him, really him, not the him on the screen - the dark azure that spills from them rinses Sherlock's irises and leaves them a transparent grey. John smiles into the side of his face, and Sherlock smiles back.

"Well done. But I have something else I thought you might help me with." He pulls back and straightens, and in his peripheral vision and at the side of the screen he can see the tip of John's cock, twice, reaching for his face. John's two cocks, holy hell. Sherlock sees himself respond to the suggestion. Oh God yes.

He tries to turn his head to the side while keeping his eyes on the phone. He can get partway there; on the screen, he watches himself wrap his long tongue around the tip of John's head, drawing it down between his lips and popping it back out. He licks his way slowly down the shaft, encircling it with greedy flicks and sideways sucks. He loses concentration once when John says, "Oh, fuck," and thrusts across his mouth, and he can't stop his eyes from flickering to John's face above him. It's only a flicker, but he has seen everything: John's half-closed eyes, his hunger, his struggle for control. Sherlock continues the licking and pulling with renewed vigour. 

He tries to turn his head further to take John into his mouth, but he can't quite do it and watch the camera at once. He can get hold of the head, which bulges obscenely against his opposite cheek. On seeing this, Sherlock can't help but give it a few shallow strokes, the best motion possible given the position, to see it slide so obviously against the inside of his mouth, his lips stretched around the angled shaft. He struggles against the restraint of the angle, desperate for more, but can't quite manage.

John's voice, when it comes, is shaky. For the first time, it occurs to Sherlock that this is what he is seeing, too. This is what he always sees.

"Alright, you can move your eyes. But not the camera - the camera stays, and you keep it steady on you."

Sherlock wrenches his head sideways and slams John's cock into the back of his throat. He presses his lips together with all his might and draws back. John gasps and his legs wobble, but he keeps himself upright. Sherlock forces himself to mind his arms and keep the camera in place, but already all thoughts are being wiped away by the wrecked sounds John is making and the fullness in his mouth. He imagines how they must look like this, how his face must look. He rolls the head of John's cock along the inside of his cheek again, remembering the image, and then presses it against his soft palate and resumes his relentless sucking and tonguing.

John is having trouble keeping his hips still, and occasionally he slips and fucks Sherlock's mouth for a thrust or two, though he always pulls back. The effort of swallowing back the start of a gag only propels Sherlock further. His untouched cock is throbbing, and he can't help pulling off of John for a moment to look at it. Before his eyes even land, John has reached a hand down and is pumping him. Sherlock moans, and a building tension arches his back. John has his other hand on himself and is working them both in time, right beside Sherlock's face. He watches John touch himself for as long as he can stand it, then he shouts that name again, that glorious name that moves his face so perfectly, and John releases himself and leans in and Sherlock plunges his lips down around the base. At the contact, John's hand on Sherlock's cock gives an extra twitch of pressure and Sherlock explodes, riding the waves of pleasure John is pulling from his body and mewling around the perfection on his tongue. He does not relent until John follows him a few minutes later, doubling over, grasping the headboard, and filling the back of Sherlock's mouth as he comes with a cry. Sherlock swallows him down and slowly pulls off, gone completely boneless at last.

It's only when John crawls over him and flops back beside him on the bed that Sherlock realizes he is still holding the camera. He opens his eyes, and the little icon in the corner indicates that it's still recording. He suddenly feels sheepish. John lies on his back and insinuates his head under Sherlock's arm. He releases the phone on that side to allow John in beside him. John nestles his head back against Sherlock's shoulder and looks up at the screen. John's face is painted over with bliss beyond reason. This, Sherlock has seen before. He smiles and tucks his cheek over John's hair. John reaches a finger up and taps the key for 'Stop.'

Sherlock drops the phone onto the pile of clothes beside of the bed and twists himself completely into John's space. His arms are aching but his whole body hums.

John sighs contentedly against his chest. "All right?"

"Mmmh."

A few minutes later.

"What happens to the file?"

"It's your phone, Sherlock, and your... face. So it's your file. Up to you."

He contemplates. A little too long.

"No distribution," John adds. "No Yarders, most of all."

Sherlock pretends to huff and John laughs lightly. He's joking, but there's a part of him that isn't quite. John sees it.

“We could tell them, though. About us. If you want.”

He really does. John sees that, too.

 

 

====================


End file.
